


It is What it is

by Emmypadders1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mycroft/Greg - Freeform, Will tag which chapters smut are in, sherlock/john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-06-27 01:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15675219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmypadders1/pseuds/Emmypadders1
Summary: Set four months after series 4, Sherlock is sinking further into depression and seems to be all alone. John, across town is struggling to look after Rosie and work the clinic. His rent is going up and even with Mary's insurance it's getting harder to make ends meet. Sherlock tries again to get in touch with John, who finally responds. Cue healing, arguments and resolutions as the two come to terms with what is, and what could be.





	1. Chapter 1

    Sherlock looked down at the phone balanced in the palm of his hand. He pressed the home button to light the screen, just to check again, but no. No new texts. Sighing, he pressed his brow to the cool glass of the window and looked out on Baker Street at the sea of umbrellas, commuters battling the rain to get home. Or to work. Sherlock wasn’t even sure of the time anymore. All he knew was that it had been two weeks since Lestrade had given him any form of a case, cold or otherwise. Mrs Hudson was quieter than ever and even Mycroft hadn’t bothered to visit. These days Sherlock believed he would tolerate a visit from his brother, just to block out some of the silence for a while. He could feel himself withdrawing from the outside world a little more, day by day. Like taking an old blanket and pulling it over your head, wrapping in that familiar darkness, except now it felt stifling. There was only one person he wanted a text from. Jesus, he despised himself for feeling so needy. But four months. Four months since he had seen John. Two months and three days since John last text him. It wasn’t for a want of trying though, in those early months Sherlock sent text after text, waited for John outside of the practice just to try and talk. But it was clear what John needed and right now it wasn’t Sherlock, no matter how much that hurt him.

    Mrs Hudson had warned Sherlock not to be too forward, that pestering John would only push him further way. But now even she was worried. Sherlock could see it in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking. And it wasn’t just John that Sherlock missed. He ached to see Rosie again, to see how much she had developed in the past couple of months. At this point she would know how to smile socially and she could support her own head. Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock saw the white shopping bag, like a flag drawing his attention. Inside was a new teddy and two outfits he had seen in Mothercare three months ago that, unable to help himself, he had bought with her in mind.

    “Perhaps it is time you try again?”

    Sherlock turned his head to the door and frowned at Mrs Hudson, stood in his doorway carrying a tray of tea. “Why?”

    She took a moment to respond. “Perhaps… he’ll be ready to listen. It wasn’t your fault Sherlock, and after what that boy did to you-”

    Sherlock jumped up to cut her off. He didn’t want to think about the fight in the morgue. He didn’t want to remember…

    Mrs Hudson seemed to understand and tutted. “Drink this at least Sherlock, and try to eat something, hm?”

   “Fine.” He watched Mrs Hudson rest the tray on the coffee table as he touched the phone in his dressing gown pocket. “Fine. I’ll text him. For you, not for me of course.”

    “Oh Sherlock!” She crossed the room and stretched onto her toes to kiss his cheek. “What will you say? Will you ask him to tea? No- don’t tell me. It’s none of my business. I know you’ll know what to say.” She petted his cheek fondly. “Good luck dear. I’m downstairs if you need me.”

    Sherlock watched her disappear down the stairs, humming to herself. It was the most she had said to him in weeks.

 

*******************************************************************

 

    It took Sherlock the evening to find a suitable excuse for texting John and when he found it, he knew it was perfect.

    -John, I’ve found an event at the Tate Gallery, ‘Art For Infants.’ I’ve bought us tickets for Friday morning. Will you come? -SH

    As soon as the text was sent Sherlock’s stomach dropped. “Will you come?” He muttered scathingly. “What an idiot.” It was too harsh, cold, just as John would expect him to be. Of course, of course it would be a no.

 

**************************************************************************

    Sherlock was halfway through his third tumbler of brandy when John finally replied.

    -Is it for a case? -JW

    Sherlock nearly fell off the sofa in his haste to read the message.

    -If I say yes, will you come?    Sherlock deleted the message before he could send it. Teasing like that would set the wrong tone and surely irritate John rather than appeal to him.

    -No of course not. I haven’t worked a case in weeks. -SH

    Sherlock stared at his phone for a moment before sending another text.

    -I miss you. Both of you. -SH He thought of a quote he had heard somewhere before, ‘that which hath made them drunk hath made me bold.’ Taking another swig of brandy, he anxiously waited for John’s reply. The room seemed to spin as he watched his phone, the brandy setting an uncomfortable fuzz in his head. He struggled to focus on the screen when his phone buzzed again.

    Ok. See you Friday at 10.-JW


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John agrees to meet Sherlock at the art gallery with Rosie.

    Sherlock bounced on the tips of his toes, using his height to his advantage as he looked over the crowds along the Southbank, watching and waiting. Clumps of tourists crowded the pathway, some following tour guides leading with union jack umbrellas whilst others stopped to take photos. Luckily no one had spotted him yet. Sherlock was still trying to get used to his newfound fame, especially after the Culverton incident, fame was a mild irritant like a tag in a new shirt. Culverton… He took a deep breath. In the background he listened to the drone of a rigid inflatable boat speed down the Thames, its passengers whooping as they skimmed along the water.

   “Sherlock?” The detective turned, his frown already melting into a smile. John was stood a few yards away wearing a new jacket, green. It was a colour Sherlock hadn’t seen the doctor wear before, but it suited him. Sherlock deduced that the man had taken some time choosing it. In front of John was a pram that hid Rosie from his view.

   “John,” he breathed, lost for words.

   “Hello Sherlock.” The doctor was stood in a certain way, his legs slightly apart. He was standing to attention, as if waiting for something.

   “Hi.” Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets, afraid he might do something stupid with them. “How…” he stopped to clear his throat. “How are you both?”

   “Good. Yeah, good. I guess we got lucky with the weather today, right?”

   Sherlock glanced up at the cloudy sky. “It would seem so.”

   John scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and nodded to the pram. “Want to say hi?”

   Sherlock nodded fervently and took the few steps forward to meet John. The doctor stepped back instinctively, keeping the distance between them. Sherlock pretended he didn’t notice as he leant over the pram.

  “Saaaa!” Rosie grinned up at him, stretching her chubby hands as soon as she spotted him.

   “Hello little one,” Sherlock said fondly, and he let her cling to his hand in greeting. “She looks great John.”

   “Thanks.” John allowed himself a small smile of pride. “Shall we go in?”

   “Oh, yes of course.” Sherlock extracted his hand and nodded towards the gallery. “It’s just up here. Can I put this bag in the pram?” John eyed it suspiciously. “It’s nothing hazardous… I wouldn’t do that…” Sherlock frowned.

   “Yeah, it’s fine. Sorry, yeah. No, I know you wouldn’t.” John ducked his head, embarrassed.

   Sherlock shoved the white plastic bag into the bottom compartment of the pram and made his way towards the gallery before John could catch a glimpse of his face. He decided not to look back, he didn’t need to as he heard John push the pram in his wake.

   They walked up to the great building and Sherlock pulled the tickets from his pocket as they approached a cordoned off section. A queue of five different sets of parents stood outside a red rope barrier, waiting with their children to be let into the exhibition. Sherlock looked out of the corner of his eye at John, gauging his impression.

   “I looked this up after you text me. It was a good idea. What made you think of it?”

   Sherlock shrugged as the queue moved forwards and he could hand the tickets over. “I wanted to see you both and since my previous communications were-” He bit his lip. “I missed you. And I needed an excuse to see you, so I looked up experiences that would be specific to Rosie and this was the most appropriate.”

   John couldn’t help the small smile and Sherlock’s straightforward logic. “That’s nice. I think she’ll love it. She’s much more aware now of her surroundings.” He parked the pram with the others and wrestled Rosie from the straps.

   As soon as they stepped into the exhibition Rosie’s eyes widened. What looked like an assault of bright and garish lights to John and Sherlock must have seemed a wonderland to Rosie who was craning her neck, looking over John’s shoulder at the array of lights. There were a variety of disco balls, some silver and others made of coloured glass that shone different patterns around the gallery.

   “I think she’s trying to catch them,” Sherlock murmured, watching her in awe as she flexed and unflexed her fingers. John bounced Rosie further onto his hip and they started to walk through the exhibition.

   “Her awareness of visual stimulation has massively increased in the last couple of months John.” Sherlock was grinning now as Rosie tried to reach for a silver windchime. Sherlock flicked it lightly and the metal tubes tinkled, much to Rosie’s excitement who giggled loudly.

   “Oh, I used to love these!” John led Sherlock over to a display of lava lamps, some stretching from the floor to the ceiling. “Daddy had one of these when he was in medical school Rosie. The orange one, yeah, just like it.” He turned to look at Sherlock whilst Rosie stared at the orange orbs shift in the tube. “Used to think I was so cool with it on my bedside table when the girls came over. Probably looked a right twat though.” Sherlock laughed and a nearby mother shot a scandalised look at John who apologised sheepishly.

   “Did you have one of these too?” Sherlock poked a plasma globe and the purple light flickered against his long fingers.

   “Nah, they’re pretty though. Do you think she can touch it?”

   “They’re perfectly harmless and I doubt she’ll pick up any germs off it.”

   John grinned. “It’s not her I’m worried about. She gets a bit…” John trailed off as Rosie squealed and smacked her chubby hands on the ball, delighted that she was finally able to touch something.

   “Enthusiastic?” Sherlock supplied.

   “Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

   “You love it really,” Sherlock teased, and John couldn’t help but agree.

   “She’s pretty special, isn’t she? But then, I am biased.” For a moment neither man spoke, happy to watch Rosie play with the light.

 

   “How is it at Baker Street?”

   “Oh fine. Just fine, business as usual,” Sherlock dismissed. “We should take Rosie over there, to the soft play area.”

   “Oh. Right. Yeah, sure.” John said, crestfallen at Sherlock’s obvious diversion. He wasn’t feeling quite brave enough yet to push Sherlock.

   Watching Sherlock sink into a beanbag was probably the funniest and most endearing thing he had ever seen. The man frowned as more of the seat gave way to his meagre weight and when he was finally settled, the buttons on his shirt didn’t strain the way they used to, offering glimpses of pale skin beneath. John knew it wasn’t a new shirt, so that meant that Sherlock had lost considerable weight recently. He glanced away and held Rosie so that her feet could touch the fluffy rug beneath them. She was too young to go on the soft cubes and crash mats that some of the toddlers were playing with but seemed content enough to rub her feet along the soft strands of the rug.

   “When you suggested today, this exhibition, I thought Rosie might be a little young…” Sherlock looked away, disappointed. “But,” John hurried on, “she’s loving it.” Sherlock said nothing, and John felt a pang of guilt at the man’s crestfallen face. “Would… would you like to hold her?”

   “Are you sure?”

   John had Sherlock’s full attention now. “Yeah, of course.” He had never seen Sherlock as anxious as when he handed Rosie over. “She can support her own head now, so don’t worry about that.”

   “Thank you,” Sherlock whispered as he held Rosie up to his face. She was distracted, still trying to kick at the soft rug. In truth, he was terrified that Rosie would start to cry and John would realise how unsuited Sherlock was to childcare. Finally, she looked at who was holding her and when she saw him, smiled brightly. “Hey,” He didn’t flinch as Rosie reached forwards to hold the tip of his nose. “She’s incredible John. Really incredible.”

   John felt a twinge of pride as he watched the pair cuddle. He wondered if Mary had ever felt like this when she watched John hold Rosie. He was inexplicably proud of Sherlock, a kind of admiration that ran deep, different to the kind he felt when Sherlock showed off at crime scenes. But it wasn’t just admiration of course, there was a deep flush of affection when he thought of how far Sherlock had come, now so clearly trying to make an effort. It really seemed, from just the short amount of time they were spending together today that Sherlock had changed. John just wished that he had changed in some form too. Maybe it had been too long, maybe he was too old now to change.

   “How’s Mrs Hudson doing?”

   “She’s been spending a lot of time with her sister actually. But she’s well, didn’t seem to show any distress after the bomb.”

   John smiled wryly. “I’m sure she’s seen much worse in her time.”

   “Most definitely. Mycroft fitted the flat with stronger defences now, bullet proof glass and that sort of thing, short of putting me in an underground bunker he’s finally satisfied that the flat is safe. It could probably withstand world war three.” John just nodded in response. “What I mean is… that if you and Rosie wanted to visit, it would be… safe.”

   “I’ll think about it, yeah.” John nodded. “I mean it. Thanks.”

   Sherlock watched as John’s cheeks turned pink. In his arms Rosie was fidgeting and distracted Sherlock with a tug on one of his curls. “Ow!”

   “Rosie! I’m sorry Sherlock, she does that. Mary used to have to clip her hair back a lot of the time.” John fell silent as he realised what he said. Even Rosie stopped moving.

   “It’s okay,” Sherlock reassured him after an awkward pause. “Does Molly still look after her?” Sherlock was careful to keep his attention on Rosie as he spoke, bouncing her lightly. “I bet you have a great time playing with Molly’s hair, don’t you?”

   John shifted awkwardly on his beanbag. “Uh, yeah. Yes, she does.” He groaned and stretched his arms out. “God this thing is doing murder for my back. Do you want to go get a coffee or something?”

   “Yes,” Sherlock said immediately, happy to have the subject changed and at the possibility of more time together. John offered to take Rosie off his arms, but Sherlock refused, determined to hold onto her for as long as possible.

   They finished the exhibition with Sherlock bouncing Rosie, giving her more attention as it was easier to focus on Rosie than it was on John. By the time they were back to the pram Rosie had fallen asleep in Sherlock’s arms.

   “They’re beautiful at that age, aren’t they? She’s so precious, much better behaved than my one.” A woman standing next to another pram nodded to her partner who was trying to wrestle a crying toddler back into his pram. Sherlock looked uncomfortable as the woman leaned over to look at Rosie properly, but John’s reassuring smile meant that Sherlock could relax a little and lower his arms so that the woman could fuss over the sleeping child. “She’s lovely.”

   “Thank you,” Sherlock couldn’t help but keep the smugness from his voice.

   “Yeah, thanks very much. Yours is pretty cute too,” John offered.

   “Yeah, right, he’s a monster!” She laughed as her own child started to kick in his pram. “Better go, nice meeting you both!”

   Sherlock looked at John, an eyebrow arched. “How often does that happen?”

   “Oh, all the time. She’s like a magnet for attention.”

   “Is that so?” Sherlock smirked.

   “Yeah not like that Sherlock! They want to see Rosie, not me. It’s just her age, it’s perfectly normal for people to want to say hello to babies.” John scratched the back of his neck and Sherlock smirked at him. “Come on you git. Let’s go get that bloody coffee.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go to a cafe and finally start to talk about... that.

   “I don’t understand how it’s socially acceptable for a complete stranger to come up to you, speak to your infant, and you’re expected to just… allow it?”  
The two men were sat in a quiet café just off Southbank in a window bay. The glass was mottled with steam from the heat of the café, making the crowds outside look like smears of paint on a canvas. Rosie had fallen asleep in her pram and Sherlock was gently rocking it to soothe her.

   “It’s just… It’s normal Sherlock,” John said kindly as he took a sip of his coffee. “Honestly, at first it took me a while to get my head around it. Trusting people… but mostly they are just being nice. It’s usually either old ladies on a bus or single women having a bit of a flirt. It’s not like they want to hold her or anything, I wouldn’t be comfortable with that. People are lonely, it would be the same if I had a puppy, people would ask about that too.”  
   

   “I wouldn’t say no to a dog,” Sherlock mused.  
   

   “I know.”  
   

   Sherlock took a sip of his coffee that was topped with whipped cream and frowned. “What did you order me?”

   John grinned. “I’m not entirely sure, some fancy looking thing with honey.”

  “Ah, Epsom Bees if I’m not mistaken.” Sherlock licked his lips.

  “You’re making it up!” John laughed and nudged Sherlock with his foot under the table.

  “Perhaps. Don’t you think Rosie’s a little too young for cake?” He nodded at the plates in front of them both.

  “It’s not for Rosie, one slice for me, and one for you.”  
 

   Sherlock ducked his head and accepted the fork John handed him. He knew John was trying to feed him again, just like he used to when they lived together, it was the same reason for buying him a calorific coffee. Sherlock didn’t mind though, he found it comforting that after all this time, John still cared. “Mm,” Sherlock hummed in surprise as he tasted the cake.

  “You can’t fool me, you know. You used to say how you didn’t like sweet things, but I knew it was you nicking my biscuits. You thought I didn’t even notice!” John stabbed his fork in mock accusation in Sherlock’s direction, who blushed furiously.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he replied primly. John’s accusation didn’t stop him from polishing off his slice of cake however, or from stealing a bite from John’s plate.

  “I’ve missed this. Us, just mucking around. It’s nice isn’t it?”

  Sherlock swallowed. “You know where I am.”

  “I do.” John looked down at his half-eaten cake. “It’s just hard, you know? I wasn’t good at talking about my emotions at the best of times. I just need some time.”

  “I understand John. And, I appreciate the time you have given me today. It’s kind.”

  “It’s not about being kind Sherlock… I just thought… We needed time. So much happened and I just… I wanted to focus on being a dad. But that meant I forgot to be your friend and I am so, so sorry Sherlock.” He sighed deeply. “I’ve let you down again, haven’t I?”

  “No,” Sherlock said quickly. “No, you haven’t at all. As you say, a lot happened, and you deserve as much time as you need.” They fell silent and Sherlock looked out of the steam covered window. “But… I have missed you.” He shrugged. “A lot has changed.”

   John looked up. “How so?”

  “I don’t do so many experiments now, there’s no one to annoy them with,” he smiled ruefully. “Mycroft’s kept himself away too. I think he’s still embarrassed.”

   John read between the lines. “Who… who do you talk to then? Has Lestrade given you any cases?”

  “Only cold ones. I’ve seen Molly…”

   John nodded knowingly. “She told me, yeah.”

  “Oh.” Sherlock took a long sip of his coffee as he mulled over how that conversation had gone. “What did she say?”

  “Well, she was embarrassed of course, but she seemed fine in general. She understood, Sherlock. We talked about… Sherrinford and… I recommended that she see someone. To try and sort her feelings out. Since then she seems a lot happier. A lot healthier,” John reassured him. “Whatever you said to her made it better.”

  “Eurus.” Sherlock said finally. “I’ve been to see her too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “Why would I be?” John said. “She’s your sister and she’s vulnerable.”

   Sherlock hesitated, considering his words before he spoke. “She’s lonely. And our family has let her down too many times. I just… I’m so tired John and I just want to make amends.”

   Sherlock looked older, not just thinner but utterly worn out. On impulse John took his hand and squeezed it gently. “Does she talk at all?” He couldn’t help but remember how Eurus had spoken to them, her power of words and manipulation.

  “No. She seems to have lost the ability. We just… I go with my violin and we play. It’s the only time anyone can get a response from her. I’ve lost her again John and I’m so conflicted.” He hissed through clenched teeth, suddenly squeezing John’s hand even tighter. “What she did to you, to all those people was horrific, unforgiveable. But she’s my sister. And I’m terrified that she still thinks she’s a little girl lost on a plane. How can I ignore that? I can’t delete her from my memories again John, even if I wanted to. She deserves help, like you said, she’s vulnerable. Isn’t she?”

  “Yeah,” John’s voice was coarse, surprised at the strength of Sherlock’s emotion. He leaned over and brushed Sherlock’s cheeks with the rough pad of his thumb, wiping away the detective’s tears. “It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

  “How?” Sherlock whispered, voice thick with emotion.

  “Because we’ll sort it. She’s not the only one who’s been let down, but I’m here now. It is what it is, yeah?”

  “And that’s okay,” Sherlock remembered.

  “Exactly.”

   Sherlock let go of John’s hand and wiped his face with the back of his own hand. “Sorry, it’s stupid, I know.”

  “No, it’s not. You’re allowed to feel things for Christ’s sake. We’re human, it’s what we do. We’ll work it out, Sherlock.” John drained the last of his coffee and pushed the rest of his plate towards Sherlock who ducked his head as he picked up his fork again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter chapter but the next couple are already over 3000 words. I would just like to point out that Greg has never abused his wife in any way. He does however have his reasons to be alert and concerned for John and Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

“He looks bloody awful, Greg. It reminded me of the Culverton Smith case, he looks… drained. Of everything.”

“Do you think it’s the same? That he’s doing it on purpose?”

“No. I don’t. I think he’s in trouble, and he can’t see it. It’s like he’s forgotten to look after himself for Christ’s sake.”

Greg took a sip of his pint as he mulled over his next words. “You know what I’m going to say.” John just looked at him. “What are you going to do about it? And I don’t just mean as a doctor.”

John groaned and ran a hand through his short hair. “Fucked if I know.”

“But you do, don’t you?” Greg arched an eyebrow at his friend. “You’ve got to sort your shit out, so you can sort his.”

“Yeah alright, and where exactly have you been for Sherlock all this time?” John grabbed at his own pint, furious at how the conversation had turned on him, even if he had half expected it.

“I’ve done as Sherlock asked me, I’ve been looking after his brother. That in itself has been a full-time job.”

John looked up. “Is he…?”

“He is now, yeah. Well, he’s getting there. I can’t tell you everything, obviously because I’ve worked bloody hard, for years, to earn that man’s trust. I’m not going to fuck it up now.”

John blinked at Greg’s sudden fierceness but tried not to let his surprise show. He couldn’t help but wonder just what their relationship must be like, they seemed such an odd pairing for a friendship. “I’m glad that he has you. At least Sherlock and I had a little training when we went into Sherrinford. It must have been hell for Mycroft.”

Greg just shrugged and watched John over the rim of his beer. “It doesn’t matter how much training you have though, does it? No one could ever say they were prepared for… that. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, you know.”

“You think I don’t know that?” John leaned across the table. “I would never blame him for something like that, he nearly died trying to protect me and Mycroft,” he said as he jabbed the table. Watching Sherlock turn the gun on himself was an image that haunted John’s nightmares, even now.

“Listen,” Greg soothed. “I get it. It’s scary, there’s bound to be shit that’ll be dragged up when you start talking. You two have been through hell John, and you’ve risked so much, don’t lose sight of that.”

“Look at what he gave me.” John placed a white bag on the counter and Greg opened it. “He didn’t even tell me what it was, like he was embarrassed or something.”

“They’re beautiful,” Greg pulled out the two outfits to admire them. The yellow dress was well made with delicate embroidery of bumble bees along the collar and hem. He looked at the teddy that John held up and grinned. “Now that’s just adorable. Can you imagine him going into a shop and buying them?”

John’s lips twitched in a smile. “Yeah, I can actually.” He carefully folded the clothing and put the bag away.

“Make sure Rosie’s wearing one of them next time he sees her. He’ll like that.”

They sat in silence for a while, nursing their pints and pretending to watch the game on the tv over the bar.

“Can’t you just… give him a case?” John asked tentatively.

“No, I can’t, you bloody coward. This is something you’ve got to sort out on your own. And if you ask me, it’s been a long time coming. If Sherlock’s as ill as you say he is, the last thing he needs is to be poncing around London, chasing down my criminals for me. Just go to the flat, accept that you’re going to get a bollocking from Mrs Hudson and then things will go back to how they’ve always been. You’ll see. Trust your uncle Greg on this one, mate.”

John stared at the counter. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t want things to go back to how they were. Things need to change, Greg. When he came back from the dead, what did I do? I hit him. I bloody punched him. And when he was about to attack Culverton Smith? I nearly killed him, I hospitalized him. I don’t blame Sherlock for anything because I’m too busy dealing with my own guilt. When I look at Sherlock I remember and… it makes me sick, what I did. How he wants to see me at all is a bloody miracle.”

“You know… I suspect Sherlock feels exactly the same. Which is why you both need to pull your fingers out and start the sodding conversation.” Greg glanced at John who looked as if he might cry. “I’ve got a contact… someone who looks after my team. Anger management. He’s brilliant. Do you want me to give him your number?”

John’s head turned up sharply. “You honestly think that I would do it again?”

It was Greg’s turn to look angry now. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I didn’t think so. I’ve been there, I know what it’s like and it’s not right John. At least you want to change your behaviour. You’ve done the therapy and it didn’t work.”

John’s eyes widened. “What do you mean you’ve been there?”

Greg necked the rest of his beer. “It doesn’t matter, I meant at work. Speak to my guy, the worst that happens is you split a few knuckles in the boxing ring.” His phone buzzed on the table and he picked it up. “I’d better go. Thanks for asking me out tonight. Let’s do it again soon, yeah?”

“Yeah, alright mate.” John nodded. “And yes. You can give him my mobile number.”

"Excellent,” Greg beamed. “See you soon then.”

John took a deep breath and looked down at his empty pint as he let Greg’s words sink in. What had he meant about the aggression? Surely Greg had never hit his wife. There would have been evidence of some sort, Greg was one of the most gentle and patient men he had ever known, his work with Sherlock was proof enough of that. So, if Greg wasn’t abusive to his wife… No. John shook his head. He had no right to pry into other people’s business when he could barely deal with his own problems. The doctor spent the rest of the evening mulling over another beer and working out how exactly he was going to fix the shitstorm that had become his life.

The next day, John received his first text inviting him to meet Greg’s colleague and he didn’t hesitate to arrange a meeting. What he wasn’t expecting was to have his first session with the anger management councillor in a gym, just off Charing Cross station. Greg hadn’t been lying about the boxing ring then.  
John pushed the pram up the ramp and into the gym. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ignore the anxiety that rolled in his gut. Rosie babbled inside the pram, squeezing the teddy Sherlock had given her which played a quiet tune whenever she found the button in its stuffing. Inside the gym a large man stood leaning against the counter as he chatted with the receptionist.

“Excuse me,” John said as he approached. “I’m here to see David? Detective Inspector Lestrade sent me.”

“Oh right.” The man who looked him up and down was more bulk than man, his muscles bulging through his shirt.

“Are you David?”

“No,” the man smirked. “I’m Carlo, his assistant. I do the paperwork. I’ll show you his office.”

John licked his lip. “Thanks.”

“You one of Greg’s lot?” Carlo led John towards a lift.

“I beg your pardon?”

“One of his coppers?”

John frowned. “No, I’m just a friend that needed some advice.”

“Right. Good for you. David’s brilliant, you know. I learned loads from him.”

John wasn’t sure how to reply to that so kept quiet, watching their reflections in the lift door as they moved from floor to floor, David and Goliath crammed into a metal cube with a baby.

David was a lot smaller that Carlo, half his height and he sported long blonde hair that had been tied into a bun. He smiled as Carlo led John and Rosie into the room.

“John, hi. Nice to meet you.” He stood up to shake John’s hand. “I’m David. And this must be your daughter. Thanks Carlo,” he nodded to his assistant.

“Uh yeah. This is Rosie. I had to bring her, no one was able to babysit today. Is that okay?”

“Yes, of course it is. Hello Rosie. Nice to see you today.” He looked John over. “Tell me, did you bring a change of clothes?”

John nodded firmly.

“Excellent,” the man beamed. “I’ve got a space out the back where we train and there’s a spot you can park the pram, if you’re happy for Rosie to sit for a while.”

“Yeah, she’ll be fine. Took her to the park earlier so she’ll probably sleep soon.”

“Well we’ll try and keep the noise down for her. You can change in there, then meet me in the ring.”

John couldn’t help but wonder just what exactly he had got himself into as he wrestled into his tracksuit bottoms.

“Now,” David was standing in the centre of the ring and he helped pull John up. “Are there any injuries I should know about?”

John hesitated.

“I’d rather know now than have to fork out for a physio therapist to fix you up later,” he smiled kindly.

“Took a bullet to my shoulder. It was years ago, it just twinges if it’s been raining.”

David nodded. “Good. Alright. Well, put some gloves on and we’ll get started.”

John stood a distance away, sizing up his partner. David may have been small but without his jacket on John could see that he was incredibly muscular, in his own rights. Similar to John both in height and stature, the men’s strength was belied by their demeanour. John wasn’t sure how he would fare if he met David in a dark alley.

“So,” David held up two pads that would allow John to safely punch his hands. “Tell me why Greg recommended you to me.”

“Well,”

“Punch left,” David instructed.

“I’ve been to therapists, I’ve done the counselling, it doesn’t work. I used to work with Greg on a freelance basis with a friend. We’d help out, chase the bad guys,” John said between punches.

“I bet that made a difference,” David said, unfazed at the strength of John’s punches to his hands.

“Sherlock, my mate. He got me into it. Best time of my life,” he admitted as he threw a heavy punch, smacking into David’s left hand.

“Bit of an adrenaline junkie then?”

John smirked. “Oh god, yeah. It was brilliant.”

“So… what went wrong?”

John grimaced. “I’ve always been… angry. Had a lot to be angry about I guess.” He glanced at David’s face. “I had a shit childhood, my parent’s were… not good. I’m not looking for sympathy,” John said quickly.

“Good, because I wouldn’t give you any. Punch right.”

John huffed. “I entered medical college and pretty much jumped at the chance to join the army, even though it meant leaving my sister. I’d spent the majority of my childhood looking after her and it was time to be selfish. The army helped a lot. They taught me to channel my energy into something more productive, into healing people.”

“What do you do for a living now?”

“I work part time at a gp’s clinic.”

“Is it as satisfying as you felt in the army?”

“No,” John admitted.

“You’re father to a beautiful child and you work in an industry that allows you to use your skills. What would make you satisfied?”

John said nothing for a few moments, happy to put his energy into throwing punches. “I’ve never said it out loud before.”

“It’s okay,” David encouraged.

“I always thought that when I leave the army I would start my own clinic. Settle down and raise a child, couple of pets. The usual thing.” He shrugged. “One out of three is pretty lucky.”

David nodded. “So a clinic. What about the work you did with Sherlock?”

John smiled despite himself. “I used to be able to help people and solve crimes. It was balanced. It felt good.”

“Why can’t you go back to that?”

“Because we fell out.” John nearly missed David’s hand on the next punch. “I hurt him. That’s why I’m here. Sherlock gave me everything, a home, work that I enjoyed and friendship. He became the most important person in my life. And then he died. Well, you’ve read the papers I’m sure.”  
David nodded.

“I kept on hurting him, like I couldn’t forgive him because we never even bloody spoke about it. When my wife died I blamed him, even though I should have been angry with Mary. I don’t even feel angry anymore, and if I do, it’s only at myself. More often I wake up and feel… nothing. I’m starting to go numb and it terrifies me more than anything.”

David smiled and nodded to John’s hands. “Let’s box.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, no more talking. I can tell you’ve boxed before, so let’s go,” David said as he removed the pads and pulled on boxing gloves.

By the end of the session John was exhausted and covered in sweat. But he was grinning. Rosie was asleep in her pram when John emerged from the shower, a towel around his neck.

“How do you feel?” David asked as he handed the doctor a glass of water.

“Good,” John smiled. “Really good actually.”

“Excellent. Do you want to sign up for some more sessions?”

John hesitated as he tucked his gym bag in the bottom compartment of Rosie’s pram. “Can I ask how much they cost?”

David shrugged. “It’s already covered.”

John frowned.

“You were referred by Greg. I don’t charge for his references because I know that when Greg sends someone to me, it’s important. And it’s about time we started paying you back for the work you do. Coppers, veterans, medical professionals. It’s one hell of a job you chose and I respect you for it. This is my way of helping,” he stuck his hands in his pockets. “Up to you if you want to come back or not.”

“Yeah,” John coughed to clear his throat. “Yeah I would.”

“Good, because I already know exactly what I’m going to do with you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You don’t need to sit in my stuffy office going over the same conversations you’ve had with every other therapist. You need exercise, so if you agree, I recommend we continue boxing on a weekly basis, build up your stamina again. I want you to focus on exercise, not just physical exercise John, but mental as well.

If you can, I want you to look at learning a new skill. It seems you were happiest when challenged. Maybe it’s time to do that mentally. Have a look around, see if there’s medical conferences you can attend, or lectures. Maybe look into lecturing?”

John bit his lip. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Give it a go. If it doesn’t work, we’ll look at something else. You can use the gym here any time you like, and we have discounts for a local creche too. You have options John. There’s no need to feel numb anymore.”

The doctor nodded. “Thank you, David. I appreciate that.”

“One final thing though. I recommend that you start building up that relationship with Sherlock again.”

John grimaced. “So everyone keeps telling me.”

“That’s probably because they’re right. You don’t need a therapist to tell you to get back the most important person in your life. But only when you’re ready John.”

“Okay. See you next week then?”

“It’s a date.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

John spent the next few weeks focusing on his own health. He purchased a specific pram that allowed him to take Rosie on his runs around their local park in the mornings John didn’t have to work. He kept up his sessions with David and the result was almost instant. He felt healthier, the mirror was a testament to that as his pallid skin looked brighter, and his body began to fill out again. He didn’t just look stronger but felt it too. As a result, he felt more confident. He looked forward to his weekly workouts with David and they had covered a lot of ground. Things were getting easier to talk about, not completely, but John believed he was making progress. He no longer felt so afraid to ask for help from his friends when it came to childcare, enabling him to work more shifts which meant a little more money was coming in. The doctor even started to investigate lectures in London that he could attend. Maybe… just maybe he could get a feel for it, work out whether it was something he would be able to do himself.

It was a chilly morning and John nearly stumbled down the stairs as he pulled a jumper on. The letter box had just clattered against his door and John hurried to pick up the letters. Bills. And another ominous white envelope with a stamp in the corner. A reminder for the next instalment on the house. He sighed and set the letters down, not bothering to open them. The extra shifts at the practice weren’t enough to cover the cost of rent anymore. When Mary died there had been no life insurance, no savings account that he could access. All the money that kept John and Rosie afloat had come from his own savings, which were meagre at best. He ran a hand through his hair and walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Perhaps it was time to look at down-sizing, the house was far too big for the two of them and besides, it didn’t feel like a home. If he was honest, it never really had. 

John poured out the tea into his favourite mug. Why, why the hell hadn’t Mary put her money in a secure account? All those years working as an assassin, she must have made money but no matter how hard John searched, endless meetings with banks and going through online accounts had yielded nothing. John sat in his armchair at the window and sipped his tea. He could take a second job, but there was only so much he could ask of Molly and Mike. If he took Rosie to childcare, even with David’s discount, an extra job would be cost prohibitive. Fuck. He looked out the window onto the quiet road. The sun was out despite the cool temperature and there were no threatening clouds in the sky. Yet again he thought about Sherlock. Despite the therapy, John hadn’t contacted Sherlock since the day in the gallery. He wondered what the detective was doing, if he had worked any cases. The thought of Sherlock running around London solving crime without John hurt him more than he cared to admit. He picked up his phone and pulled up Sherlock’s number. No new messages, although that wasn’t surprising. He tapped the phone against his leg as he finished his tea, debating sending a message. 

“Oh fuck it,” he muttered and unlocked the phone again.

Are you doing anything today? -JW

He didn’t expect a response from the detective, who was probably working on an experiment. Upstairs Rosie began to cry. 

“It’s alright Rosie, daddy’s coming,” he said through the baby monitor before jogging up the stairs.

“Okay, okay,” he soothed as he picked up the crying child. Rosie immediately pushed her head into John’s neck and clutched at his jumper. “Alright darling, did you have a bad dream?” He hummed for a moment, swaying Rosie until she calmed down. “Let’s get you dressed, hm?”

Changed and fed, John set the little girl down on her play mat. “Come on, let’s see if you can sit up. Come on Rosie.” Joh watched as his daughter rolled on the mat, her fingers splaying on the colourful pad as she kicked her fat legs. “Come on,” he placed her in a sitting position and slowly removed his hands. She toppled into his arms instantly. “Damn. That’s okay darling; don’t worry.” He tickled her tummy and reached for one of her toys. “Here you go.” Normally, children already knew how to sit upright between the ages of four to seven months. He shouldn’t be worried, Rosie was only eight months old, but he still felt like it was his fault. He watched as she chewed on the ear of a plush rabbit and tried to smile at her. She was watching him carefully, studying him as he returned to his armchair. It was only when he sat down that he remembered his phone. 

Nothing. -SH

Sherlock had replied to the text almost immediately and John had missed it. “Shit,” he muttered. Sherlock was probably already bored of waiting for John’s next message and gone onto something else.

Sorry, I was feeding Rosie. Can we come over? -JW

John looked down at Rosie as he waited for his phone to buzz against the table. “Is daddy an idiot Rosie?” He pulled a funny face and she giggled. “Yeah, I thought as much.”

His phone buzzed again, and John nearly knocked it from the table in his haste to pick it up. He read it and grinned at his daughter. “Right, come on you, we’re going on an adventure.” It took John a little longer than he liked to leave, packing up all the necessary items for Rosie was a mission all in itself. He walked with her to the front door and went to pick up his oyster card. It was sat next to the bills. 

“Fuck.” 

Rosie gurgled something which sounded concerningly similar. 

John sighed. “Okay, new plan. An even better adventure Rosie. We’re going to see if Daddy still knows how to ride that bike.”

 

Sherlock ran downstairs the minute John confirmed his visit. 

“Mrs Hudson! I hope you’ve got some biscuits in your cupboard.” He ran down the stairs and Mrs Hudson had already opened her door by the time he reached it.

“Oh Sherlock, all this shouting! Really, if you’re hungry you should go out and buy some yourself.”

Sherlock shook his head and grinned smugly. “They’re not for me. We have visitors.”

“Visitors?” She frowned. “Do you mean…?”

Sherlock nodded, his smile widening. “John and Rosie are coming over. I suspect they will be here in half an hour, depending on transport.” 

“Oh Sherlock, how wonderful!” She clapped her hands together and pinched his cheek. “You go on upstairs and have a shower. Put on a nice shirt. Don’t worry about snacks, I’ll bring some up for you both. Don’t forget to have a little tidy while you’re at it dear.” 

Sherlock nodded and ran back up to his flat, for once listening to Mrs Hudson’s advice. Everything had to be perfect. 

“Sherlock,” she called up the stairs. “There’s one of those bouncer chairs here in the cupboard that you can set up for Rosie, give her something nice to play with while you boys talk.”

Half an hour came and went, during which Sherlock had rushed, a whirlwind with wet hair from the shower as he hurried to get the flat clean. He threw cutlery into the sink and shut the kitchen door before throwing his books onto their respective shelves. Everything had to be perfect. He glanced at the clock. An hour had passed since John’s predicted arrival time. He heard Mrs Hudson at the bottom of the stairs, obviously pacing the hallway as she too waited. Sherlock’s heart sank as he made eye contact with her.

“He isn’t coming,” he said at the same time as she said:

“He’ll be here, Sherlock.”

The detective shook his head miserably. “Idiot,” he muttered. As he turned his back to walk into his lounge the doorbell rang. He turned sharply on his heel to look at his landlady. “Don’t open it,” he hissed.

“For goodness sake, why ever not?” She whispered back.

“Because it will look…” He waved his hands. “Keen. Count to five and then answer. I’ll sit in my flat.”

Martha rolled her eyes at Sherlock’s stupidity and went to open the door. “John! Hello dear. Oh Rosie!” She squealed at the sight of John padlocking his bike to the iron gates in front of Baker Street. Sherlock dithered at the top of the stairs. He wasn’t certain if John could see his feet from there and decided it was too late to hide now. He walked down the stairs to watch as Mrs Hudson wrestled Rosie from her seat on the bike.

John just grinned, bemused as Mrs Hudson whisked his child into her flat. “Nice to see you too,” he teased. Sherlock stood at the bottom of the stairs, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He debated leaning against the bannister for a nonchalant look but thought better of it. “Good morning John.”

“Hi Sherlock. Sorry we’re a little late. I had to take the bike to get here. Couldn’t find my oyster,” he lied. Not that Sherlock believed him. He already knew why John had cycled all the way across London with an infant. 

“I wasn’t worried. Come on up.”

John followed Sherlock up the stairs.

“You look well, really well actually. Have you been exercising?”

John grinned. Coming from anyone else it would have sounded like a pick-up line. “Yeah. Greg got me in touch with someone and we’ve started boxing.”

Sherlock was assaulted with the thought of John in a boxing ring, red faced and sweating as he threw punch after punch. He shifted position in his seat and cleared his throat. “Sounds boring.”

“Maybe,” John laughed. “But I’ve enjoyed it. I feel… good.”

“You look it,” Sherlock agreed.

“What about you, have you been eating properly?” 

Sherlock squirmed again, for an entirely different reason. “I’m trying to.”

“Well, I suppose that’s better than nothing. Should set an alarm on your phone, to remind you when to eat. David’s been really good, you know. Sorted me out a whole new regime, helped me build up my stamina and now I’m fit enough again to go running in the mornings.”

Sherlock faked a smile. “And Lestrade put you two in contact?” John nodded. “What else do you do?”

“We just talk really.” 

“Oh.” Sherlock deduced that John met up with this ‘David’ at least once a week and was clearly fascinated by him. He looked down at his feet and listened to Mrs Hudson play with Rosie downstairs. “You’re seeing a new therapist?”

“Yes, I just said. David.”

“He’s a therapist? I thought he was a personal trainer?”

“Well yeah, he’s probably that too.” John took a deep breath. “He’s an anger management therapist, Sherlock.”

The detective looked up suddenly. “Oh. OH.” He blinked several times as the information processed.

“I just… wanted you to know that I’m… working on it.”

“On what?” Sherlock frowned.

“You know what. Don’t you?”

Before Sherlock could reply Mrs Hudson called up the stairs. 

“I’ve made tea, but I need you John, to help carry it up.” 

“Coming!”

Sherlock watched John smile ruefully and go down the stairs.

“It is lovely to see you both again John.” Mrs Hudson invited John into his flat to pick up the tray of tea she had made. She was still holding Rosie who was babbling and patting her hair. “He’s very excited to see you, even if he doesn’t show it,” she added quietly. “He’s missed you a lot John.”

The doctor nodded, eyes downcast on the tray.

“Now you listen to me John Hamish Watson, because this is important.” The Doctor’s back stiffened at the use of his full name and he turned to face the intimidating woman. “I won’t nag you because I suspect you’ve beaten yourself up enough as it is. But I don’t agree with you ignoring Sherlock for so long. The boy spends most of his time with a sister that he can’t communicate with. He needs friends. He needs you.” She crowded into him. For an elderly woman holding an infant, she looked terrifying. “I know you’ve both been through hell and back but listen here. If you dare let him down again, if you dare break his heart again, you will have me to deal with. Mycroft Holmes will seem like a puppy in comparison to me.” 

John licked his lips. He could well believe it. “I understand.”

“Good,” she smiled, all aggression disappeared from her face. “Take the tea up and I’ll carry this little angel for you.” She cooed at Rosie and the two giggled as they followed John upstairs.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“Sherlock don’t forget that chair, bouncer thingy is there for you to set up. Rosie will want something nice to play with, won’t you?” She set Rosie on the play mat and pinched her cheek. Strangely, Rosie didn’t seem to mind. 

“Of course, yes!” Mrs Hudson disappeared, and Sherlock went to dig out an old tool box from under the kitchen sink. He brought it in to where John was sitting with Rosie, still reeling from John’s earlier admission. Anger Management…

“Do you want to talk about it, Sherlock?” John poured them both a cup of tea and already opened the biscuits, hoping to get Sherlock to eat some. 

“I don’t think it should be too difficult to set up, remember the bookcase you got for your room?”

John grinned. “That was difficult, if I remember rightly. Bloody hours that took us. Thought you’d be a natural at something like that.”

Sherlock flushed. “And you were a surgeon,” he teased. “What’s your excuse?”

“Fine.” John accepted the screwdriver. “A fiver says we can get it finished in an hour.”

“Deal.” Sherlock looked over to where Rosie was lying on her play mat. “She’s wearing the outfit I bought her.” It was a pale blue pair of dungarees that had a bee embroidered onto the front. Underneath she was wearing the brightly coloured jumper bought at the same time. “You like it?”

“I love it,” John reassured him. “Rosie does too. I think she likes wearing bright colours.” John squat down beside Sherlock as they lay out the pieces for Rosie’s new bouncer. “You know,” he said as they began to build the chair. “I didn’t mean the bouncer when I asked you if you want to talk.”

“I know.”

“I’ll take that as a no then.” John chewed his lip.

“I don’t really know what to say,” Sherlock confessed finally. “Is it working?”

“I think so,” John said. “He’s pretty good, knew it was adrenaline and not some kind of left over trauma. Not as good as you though,” John nudged him playfully. Sherlock didn’t bite. “He’s not though,” John admitted. “He’s not you Sherlock.”

“I was never your therapist.”

“No, obviously.” John swallowed. “But within a matter of weeks you cured my limp. Shit. You’re missing the point Sherlock.”

Suddenly Sherlock yelped and withdrew his hand from a part of the bouncer he was working on. John looked to see blood already starting to spill onto the wooden floor.

“Fuck, hang on, don’t move.” John jumped up and ran to the kitchen to grab a tea towel. Sherlock was shivering and distinctly not looking at his hand when the doctor returned. John held up the towel. “These are clean, right?” Sherlock nodded, and John crouched to wrap the cloth around Sherlock’s hand to stem the blood. “Jesus, you alright?” Sherlock nodded but any colour he had in his cheeks was gone. “Alright, deep breaths Sherlock. I know it hurts but it isn’t that bad. Look at me, okay?”

Sherlock did as he was told, eyes piercing despite their obvious disgust.

“You’ve been shot before, remember?”

“That was different. It’s different now, when I can see it. My own I mean,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I understand. I won’t tell anyone.” John smiled. “Still got my first aid kit in the bathroom?” Sherlock nodded. “Okay, up you get. Let’s go clean this up.” John helped Sherlock to stand whilst still holding pressure to the wound. “Deep breaths and hold this,” John guided Sherlock’s hand to the cloth so the doctor could open the medical kit. “Let me take a look.” His voice was kind, softer than Sherlock had heard it in a long time. It was relaxing. “Okay, it’s not too bad.” John sat Sherlock on the edge of the bath. Sherlock looked away as John cleaned the wound and bandaged it efficiently. “Okay?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Does it hurt?”

“A little.”

“Let me get you some paracetamol.”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head vehemently. “No drugs.”

“Not even paracetamol?”

“It’s not worth it,” Sherlock promised. “I’ll be fine.”

John examined his handiwork, looking for any spots where the blood might leak. “What did you do?” 

“The screwdriver,” Sherlock muttered, and John winced.

“Okay, well you’re lucky it wasn’t worse then. Didn’t fancy a trip to A and E today.”

Sherlock smiled weakly. “Thank you, John.”

“Listen, what I was trying to say, Sherlock. You were never my therapist, or my life coach. You were my friend. I…” John inhaled sharply, the metallic tang of blood in the air. “I fucked it all up Sherlock. Me, not you. I couldn’t see past my anger and I let that…” He dropped his head in shame. “I’m just… I couldn’t visit you, because I was so disgusted at myself. I am so, so sorry Sherlock. I’m working on my temper. I will never, never let it affect you again. None of it was your fault. Okay, I h-” he hummed, trying to force the word out. “I hit you,” he whispered. 

“Don’t,” Sherlock begged, their faces so close their brows were almost touching. “I pushed you-”

“No Sherlock. No one ever asks to be hit.”

“I did.”

John thought back to the case in Belgravia with the woman. “That was different Sherlock. But it still wasn’t okay. It should never be justified. Listen to me.” John forced Sherlock to look at him again. “I am so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Sherlock mumbled finally. He dropped his head in defeat, onto John’s shoulder. The doctor was still cradling his hand, standing whilst Sherlock sat, slumped against him. Slowly the doctor brought his free hand to Sherlock’s back and began to rub it gently. 

“Do you think we can just… go back to how it was? Before Mary, before all the shit?”

Sherlock laughed dryly. “Bit difficult when you have a child.”

John swallowed. “Yeah. I know.”

“It’s better isn’t it?” Sherlock felt braver, leaning into John with his face hidden. “It has the potential I mean, to be better. She’s amazing John. We shouldn’t look at how we were, but what we could be.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder and pulled away gently. “I agree. Come on, I’ll go finish that chair and you can see what you can rustle up for lunch?”

Sherlock smiled as he examined his bandage. “Take away?”

“Perfect,” John grinned.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one took a really long time huh? I'm sorry about the wait. I have one more chapter written up and I'm going to spend the next week looking at where the next couple of chapters are going to go. Thanks for reading!

John smiled fondly at Sherlock across the room. Sat in their distinct arm chairs the two men ate from Japanese take away boxes. Sherlock was holding up his chopsticks, demonstrating how to use one as a murder weapon and John laughed. In her new chair Rosie was bouncing, springing and slapping her feet against the floor as she watched them. 

John shook his head. “Ridiculous Sherlock. Absolutely bonkers.”

“No, it isn’t,” Sherlock pouted. “I once took a case that involved a chopstick, extremely valuable, that went missing. It was found in the throat of a museum curator.” 

Sherlock slurped a noodle and nodded to John. “Besides, I’m not the one with Katsu curry sauce on my jumper.”

“What!” John looked down, confused. His top was clean. “You little shit!” 

Sherlock had his head bowed over his food, shovelling noodles into his mouth, but John could see from the way his shoulders moved that Sherlock was laughing at him. 

“I’m glad you’re eating,” John commented. “Want some udon?”

“Mm,” Sherlock caught the bag as John tossed it over. 

“There was something I wanted to speak to you about.” Sherlock looked up, eyes wide as he studied the doctor. John sighed. It was better to say it quickly. “Rosie and I need to move. We need… well. I can’t afford it anymore,” he admitted. “You know this area so well, I wondered if you would help us look for a new flat?”

Sherlock put his food down, all appetite gone. “Oh. I see. Of course. I’m sure between us we can find somewhere affordable for you both.” He hesitated, looking around the flat. There was no point in even suggesting it, with only one bedroom to offer, there was no way that John would be willing to move back in and share a room with his daughter. He took a deep breath and tried not to let it show on his face. John wanted to move back into the area, and that alone was a small victory. “Is that why you came over?”

John swallowed. “Partly. I thought that if you were free today… well, there’s no one else I could trust to help us with this.”

Sherlock gave a small smile at that. “I’ll get my laptop.” They moved to the sofa where both men could look at the screen as Sherlock opened up different search engines. “How far from Baker Street were you thinking?”

“As close as we can afford,” John said. “There’s a clinic nearby that is hiring, I’m going to apply.”

Sherlock nodded. He would ask Mycroft to ensure that John was hired if it meant financial security for the doctor. Sherlock frowned as he entered John’s requirements into the search engine. “There isn’t much… would you be willing to house share? We could do a background search into housemates, ensure that it is an appropriate environment-”

Sherlock was cut off by John groaning. 

“It’s not ideal, is it?”

“The alternative,” Sherlock swallowed, “is to look at places outside of London.”

John shook his head. “I don’t want to do that. The whole point is to be close to you and Mrs Hudson. Close to our friends.”

Sherlock made a few more changes to the search engine and nodded. “There are three flats within a thirty-minute radius of your clinic. And… we can see them today.” Sherlock bit his lip. He knew what that meant, that the agents were eager to sell them. But he wouldn’t voice his concerns. “Shall I send them a message enquiring?”

John sighed. “Yes. Yeah, please.” 

“Done. I’ll tell you if they get in touch.” Sherlock smiled as Rosie babbled. “Did you hear that Rosie? Your father and I are going to find a new place for you to live. That’s right!”

Rosie clapped her hands at the attention. Sherlock crossed the room and unbuckled her straps before scooping the baby into his arms. 

“Ready? Here we go… superman!” He held Rosie aloft and watched as she stretched her limbs out, completely rigid in the air. 

“Wow”, John admired. He sunk further into his armchair and waved at his daughter. Rosie squealed in Sherlock’s arms as he began to dance her around the room, twirling and spinning with her safely nestled in his arms. He was so engrossed in the game that Sherlock didn’t notice when his laptop bleeped. 

John picked it up and took a look at the new message. “I’ve booked us an appointment. It’s in an hour. Must be eager to sell,” he muttered.

Sherlock just hummed as Rosie nestled into the crook of his neck. 

 

They managed to see all three flats that day. The first John refused to even step inside. Stood in the carpark John looked up at the dismal block of flats, bleak against the grey sky. He chewed on his lip and Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet as he studied John. The doctor’s expression turned to a scowl when he saw a group of young men that had commandeered the kids’ playground just opposite. They wore hoods that obscured half their faces and were playing loud music. John shook his head fiercely. 

“No. No way is my daughter living here.” 

Sherlock said nothing as he followed John to the next flat. 

The second flat was on a high street, placed above a row of shops. They decided to take a look inside this one, ignoring the estate agent who was stood by the window, praising the location. John stepped into the bedroom and sniffed. His nose wrinkled. 

“Ah, yes.” The estate agent had followed them into the room. “The flat is positioned above a couple of restaurants…”

“Fish and chips. It smells of sodding cooking oil and grease.” John grimaced as Rosie began to cry, cradled in the papoose attached to John’s chest. “No. This won’t do at all.” He stalked from the flat, Sherlock in tow.

The third flat was more promising. A two bedroom only five minutes’ walk from the Thames. John walked through the kitchen and dining area, bouncing Rosie.

“This would do nicely,” John said quietly. “It could sort us out for the time being. Two bedrooms Sherlock.”

“Mmm,” the detective disappeared into one of them. He emerged moments later only to investigate the second room. 

“Sherlock?” 

He reappeared. “I hate to play the devil’s advocate… what’s your opinion on damp?”

John frowned. “There isn’t, is there?” 

Sherlock jerked his head, indicating John to follow. He lifted a painting that took up half the wall above the bed. Behind it the wallpaper was peeling, smeared in green and black splodges. 

“Oh god!” John covered Rosie’s face and backed from the bedroom. “Is the other the same?”

Sherlock nodded soberly. 

“Shit.” 

“Ih,” Rosie gurgled.

“I don’t need to tell you what medical defects damp can have on your health, let alone your daughter’s.”

John held up a hand to his face. “I knew it was too good to be true, Baker Street spoiled me. What am I going to do?”

Sherlock shuffled awkwardly on his feet. “I can call Mycroft…”

“No, don’t do that.”

“Are you certain Mary left no money?”

John shook his head. “Nothing. A bloody assassin, and what for eh?”

The detective grimaced. “Let’s go back to the flat. There must be options we haven’t thought of.”

 

Back in 221b, the flat felt so familiar that John wanted to cry. Watching as Sherlock lit the fire in the lounge, John settled Rosie in his arms to sleep.

“I need to get a cot for when she visits,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Mmm.” John rubbed Rosie’s side, soothing her into sleep.

“Right, whiskey?”

“God yes. Ta.” 

The two men sat in silence, drinking and staring at the fireplace, listening to the crackling warmth fill the air. At John’s sigh, Sherlock looked up.

“It’s been a trying day,” Sherlock said quietly. He looked at the clock, surprised at how late it was. He set his glass down and stretched. “Let me go to the nearest supermarket. I’ll pick up a cot and you can both stay in your old room if you’d like? We can try again with the flats tomorrow.”

John looked as if he was going to argue. He chewed on his lip, checked the clock on the mantle and then down at his sleeping daughter. Would it really be so bad to stay the night? Probably not. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I did.” Sherlock’s lips quirked into a smile. “Anything else you want me to pick up?”

“Mmm, Rosie will need some jars for her breakfast tomorrow. Do you know the brand?” Sherlock nodded. “Great, just that and a cot then. I brought her a spare change of clothes for tomorrow.”

Sherlock left with a flourish, twirling his coat before draping it over his shoulders as he bounced out the door and into the evening. 

When he finally returned, arms full of shopping and a large cardboard box in tow he saw John fast asleep in his chair, Rosie still cradled in his arms. He smiled and set the bags down before touching John’s shoulder. 

“John?”

The doctor stirred. His lips twitched, and Sherlock noticed how his hands tightened instinctively on Rosie. 

“John? It’s me, Sherlock. Wake up now.” His voice was impossibly soft, breath fanning out over John’s face and the doctor licked his lips. He remembered John’s trauma, how the doctor would start awake in violent outbursts, haunted with memories of the war. He suspected that John still suffered from them and was wary to wake him, hands ready to catch Rosie should he drop her. Slowly, almost reluctantly, John opened his eyes. 

“Sh’r’lock?” John blinked quickly, eyes unfocused as he took in the man above him. He smiled in recognition and looked down at Rosie, still asleep. 

“I got the things we need. I’ll set the cot up in your room and then you can both rest.” 

His room… John rubbed his face with his free hand and sighed deeply. “That sounds perfect. Want a hand?”

“No, I can do it,” Sherlock was already halfway up the stairs with the cot. John followed him, cradling Rosie close against his chest as they stepped into the bedroom. 

The room was exactly the same as he remembered, preserved from the day John packed his belongings and left the flat behind. He inhaled deeply.

“I open the window on a regular basis, air the room out. There’s fresh bedding too, in your wardrobe.”

John wanted to ask Sherlock why the detective cared so much, why he had preserved the room in such a way, but he couldn’t bring himself to hear the truth. Instead he said, “thank you” in a quiet voice, and sat on the bed with his daughter as Sherlock quickly assembled the cot. It was a good quality one, white with images of birds and woodland creatures on the frame.

“It’ll do for now, I can always get a nicer one at a later date.”

John shook his head and lay Rosie down. “It’s perfect for her,” he let Sherlock pull the blanket over the infant and nudged Sherlock with his shoulder. “Thank you, Sherlock. For everything you’ve done for us.”

The detective shrugged and ducked his face, hiding his blush. “Any time.” He sighed and looked about the room before backing towards the door. “It was always your room… it always will be. I would- I would like you to know that it’s here for you. Whenever.” Embarrassed, he left before John could speak. 

“Fuck,” John muttered as he flopped on the bed, narrowly missing the headboard. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes naturally followed the thin crack that stretched from one corner of the room directly above him. How many nights had he spent looking at that line before going to sleep? Even the traffic outside sounded the same, the warm glow of the street lamp pressed against the gap of the blind, and John had to take a couple of breaths, nearly overwhelmed with nostalgia. He pressed his hand to his eyes but it did nothing to stop the tears, almost taking him by surprise with their silent voracity. He focused on the sound of Rosie’s steady breaths as she slept, and let them lull him to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome Home.

John slept well, better than he had in years. He woke feeling groggy, unused to being so rested and he was surprised to see that it was almost 8am. It seemed that Rosie had a good night too, still asleep in her new cot. John smiled softly as he checked on his daughter, pulling the blanket further over her body. He decided to make a tea and crept downstairs, careful not to wake anyone. 

“Good morning John.” 

The doctor blinked in surprise. Sherlock was sat in his armchair and on the coffee table was a tray, complete with a fresh pot of tea. 

“There’s bread if you would like toast this morning.” 

“Thanks…” John scrubbed at the back of his neck as he shuffled awkwardly in the stairwell. 

Sherlock’s brow creased as he studied the doctor. “Is there a problem? Is Rosie okay?” 

John nodded quickly. “Yeah, sorry. Just not used to…” he gestured at the room, “this. Rosie’s still fast asleep. Best night either of us have had in a long time. Did you sleep at all?” He asked as he made and handed Sherlock a fresh mug of tea. He settled with his own, sat opposite the detective. 

“I slept a little.” He mulled over his drink for a moment, choosing his words. “I hadn’t realised how relaxing it is to know that there are other people in the flat.” 

John nodded in understanding. “Do you get nightmares?” 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Sometimes.” He didn’t bother to ask John about his own nightmares. He knew already from all the nights listening out for the doctor, and playing the violin when he heard John stir. “I was looking at more flats for you and Rosie last night. I couldn’t find anything,” he said quickly, to stop John’s hopeful look. 

“Jesus. Well, thanks for looking.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want to speak to Mycroft? I know that he’s an interfering lard, but he might prove to be useful in this situation.” 

John shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t want to owe anyone favours.” 

Sherlock snorted. “If anything, Mycroft owes us a mansion.” 

John just hummed and they sat in silence drinking their tea, waiting for Rosie to wake. 

“I want to help, if you would let me…” 

“You’ve already done so much for us. It wouldn’t feel right to ask you for money.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m not offering money.” 

“Oh,” John frowned. “Then…” 

“You have to give a month’s notice before leaving your house, yes?” John nodded. “Then if I may suggest, ridiculous as it might seem, that you…” he shrugged nonchalantly, “move in here. Even if it’s just while you look for a place that you prefer.” Sherlock took a moment to hide behind his tea, unable to witness John’s reaction. He tried to look aloof, as if he didn’t already regret the question and the inevitable answer he was about to receive. But the negative response never came. 

John looked as if he was about to sleep but Rosie started to cry upstairs. “Damn. I’ll be back.” 

Sherlock simply nodded and shifted in his seat, waiting anxiously for John to bring Rosie downstairs. The longer he waited, the more his fears heightened. He grimaced as he heard John on the stairs. 

“John, I’m going out. I’ll be back later,” he jumped up and pulled on his coat before John could come downstairs. 

“Sherlock wait!” 

But the detective didn’t wait to hear John’s answer as he all but ran from the flat. John watched from his window, holding Rosie in his arms, as Sherlock weaved between cars to reach the park opposite. 

“Shit,” he mumbled. 

Rosie thumped her little hand against the window and her lip began to wobble. 

“Oh Rosie no, it’s okay. He’ll be back soon baby.” He kissed the top of her head and rubbed her back soothingly. “Let’s get dressed.”  
Sherlock slumped on the park bench, head in his hands. Idiot, foolish, foolish! What had possessed him to even suggest such a thing? He was lucky that Rosie had woken and spared Sherlock the humiliation of John’s rejection. He looked out onto the lake, too cold today for people to make use of the rental boats. A breeze ran along the top of the water, making it ripple and Sherlock shivered. His phone buzzed in his pocket, stirring him. 

Please come home, Rosie misses you. -JW 

“Come home,” Sherlock murmured, pressing the phone to his lips. 221B hadn’t felt like a home for a long time. Not since the fall. Remembering the jump from Bart’s hospital sent Sherlock into a deeper spiral of anxiety, reminding him that it was all his fault. If he’d been one step ahead of Moriarty from the beginning… if he’d told John the plan, if he’d never gone abroad… Then 221B would be a home, John would be solving crimes with him as if nothing had ever changed. 

This time it was his ringtone that stopped Sherlock’s thoughts. He blinked slowly, becoming aware once more of his surroundings. “John…” He looked down to see that he had missed three calls from the doctor. One was usually a courtesy call. Two attempts meant concern but three… three usually meant something was wrong. Fear seized Sherlock and jerked him into action. What could be wrong? What would scare the doctor so much that John had called three times? He swallowed thickly and ran across the park, knowing it would be quicker than trying to ring John. 

His footfall was heavy on the stairs and Sherlock could hear Rosie crying as he raced up to the flat. “John?” He called. 

“Sherlock! Jesus, are you alright?” John dropped the spoon he had been trying to feed Rosie with when he saw the detective. 

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock panted. 

“Nothing…?” 

“But you called me. Three times.” 

“Of course I did, you’ve been gone two hours. I was worried about you.” 

“You were worried… about me?” 

“Naturally,” John said, giving his best impression of Sherlock. 

The detective’s lip twitched at that. “I’m sorry I concerned you.” 

“I think Rosie was worried too. She saw you leave and hasn’t stopped crying since.” John winced as Rosie started to squeeze his hand harder in retaliation. “Ow, Rosie that’s not helping. God, she’s going to have a tantrum. Can you give me a hand?” 

Sherlock hurried over, letting his coat fall as he reached the baby. “Hello Rosie.” 

The child turned her attention from John, tears spilling down her fat cheeks. 

“I’m sorry you’re upset.” 

Rosie looked up at Sherlock reverently. For a second it looked as though she was going to start screaming but then her face changed, transforming into a wide smile as she reached up to be held. Her hands turned to little fists as she motioned for Sherlock to pick her up. So he did, and Rosie immediately snuggled into his neck, smearing her snot on his shirt collar. 

“Lovely,” he said, nose wrinkling in mock disdain. 

“Here,” John murmured as he stepped behind Sherlock, draping a muslin cloth to try and protect the rest of the detective’s suit. 

Sherlock pressed his face to Rosie’s hair and breathed deeply, allowing himself a moment for comfort, to find his footing. “There we are,” he spoke softly, soothing Rosie. “No more tears. You have so much to be happy for, daddy’s here and I’m here and…” he sniffed the air, “Mrs Hudson is baking!” He bounced Rosie who had no idea what that meant, but was happy to share Sherlock’s excitement nonetheless. 

“How is it that you can be so good, at bloody everything?” John was watching the man in awe, a soft smile on his lips. “Incredible.” 

“Mmm, maybe not everything John.” 

The doctor’s smile faded. How had Sherlock lost so much confidence? Where was that infuriating arrogance that both irritated and endeared John at the same time? He took a deep breath and pressed his hand onto Sherlock’s shoulder, and gave a comforting squeeze. Sherlock seemed to tense momentarily under the touch, but then his shoulder drooped as his muscles relaxed. 

“It’s not easy, living with a baby. You think I’ve got a temper; Rosie’s tantrums are a feat all in their own. She keeps me up at night, she’ll cry if I’m not paying her attention, she’ll cry if I do. Sometimes she can be so utterly exhausting, and I worry that I can’t go on. She’s a commitment, and I’m not saying that I don’t love her, more than anything in the world. But living with a baby is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.” 

Sherlock kept silent through John’s speech, cradling Rosie as he allowed the words to sink in. 

“My point is… living with a child changes everything. It changes your home in ways you never thought it could. It changes the way you live your life…” He breathed in deeply. “Are you sure you could cope with change like that?” 

Sherlock nodded fervently. “Yes,” his voice cracked. 

“No more toxic experiments, no body parts in the flat… Rosie’s health is a priority.” 

“I know,” he whispered. “That goes without saying.” 

“I’m not saying I want you to stop being you. I lo- Anyway.” He cleared his throat. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” 

Sherlock blinked quickly. “I understand. But not why.” 

“You never gave me a chance to answer you this morning. If you’re sure-” 

“I am,” he interrupted. 

“Good. If it gets too much, at any time for you, if you feel overwhelmed… just tell me. Speak to me ok, and we can work it out.” 

“Yes John.” He knew already that he wouldn’t ever regret having John home again. He just worried that he would ruin it somehow. That John would be the one with regrets. “We should invite Mrs Hudson up. She is our landlady, she should know.” 

“And maybe we’ll get some baked goods, if we’re really lucky Rosie, eh?” John stroked his daughter’s cheek and smiled up at Sherlock. “I’ll go get her, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

John quickly returned with Mrs Hudson in tow, carrying a tray of fresh scones. 

“Oh Sherlock,” she cooed. “Suits you dear.” 

Sherlock looked up from his arm chair where he was cradling Rosie, who had fallen asleep. At the noise the infant seemed to press her face further into Sherlock’s side, seeking comfort. He hadn’t even heard the doctor and landlady, enraptured in watching the sleeping child. 

“I’ve brought scones,” Mrs Hudson supplied when Sherlock failed to speak. “Are you alright dear? You look like you need to eat. John, pop the kettle on and fetch us some knives dear.” She set the tray down and walked over to Sherlock, leaning over to look at Rosie. Sherlock could hear the smile in her voice. “You look a little shell shocked. Everything alright?” 

Sherlock’s answer stuck in his throat and he nodded dumbly. 

“We’ve got something we want to run by you,” John said from the kitchen. 

Mrs Hudson looked between both men. There was only one reason Sherlock would look like this. “You’re moving in again, aren’t you?” 

John chewed his lip and nodded. “Is that okay?” 

“Of course it is! Oh John, welcome home!” Mrs Hudson squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder warmly. 

“It’s only temporary, mind.” 

“Oh,” Martha frowned. 

“I have to move out, as soon as possible really and Sherlock’s been helping me try to find a new flat but… Maybe it’s the time of year, maybe it’s just that there are no good flats on my terrible budget, but Sherlock has been kind enough to offer up my old bedroom again. So long as you don’t mind of course,” he said quickly, cheeks filling with colour. 

Martha walked up to John and pinched his cheeks. “This is your home John,” she said as she pulled him into a hug. “It always will be.” 

“It’s a temporary solution,” he assured her. “I’ll keep Rosie as quiet as I can.” 

“Temporary! I certainly hope not John Watson.” She wagged a finger in his face. “Don’t you worry about noise, Sherlock bought me some of those noise cancelling headphones for my birthday.” She turned from the kitchen and moved back to talk to Sherlock in private. “Are you happy dear? Is this really what you want?” 

Sherlock blinked slowly. “I just don’t want to get it wrong again,” he whispered. 

Mrs Hudson brought him a freshly prepared scone, extra cream, just as she knew he liked. “You’ve grown so much in the time you’ve lived under my roof. I love you so dearly, and John does too. So does that little one in your arms. You’ve nothing to worry about Sherlock, just be your kind, attentive self and you’ll be fine.” 

“Thank you,” he said quietly. It was the first time Mrs Hudson had seen him smile. 

“Eat up dear. I’ll leave you two be,” she said loud enough so John could hear too. 

“Thanks Mrs Hudson, for everything,” John said as he walked in from the kitchen. “Let me take the little one Sherlock so you can eat and drink your tea.” 

As the two men settled into a comforting and amiable silence, Sherlock couldn’t help but grin, and marvel at how natural it felt. John was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speaking of moving... I moved house in December and this is the first time since then that I've had wifi, hence the delay in updates. But I'm back with a chapter, and a few more saved on my laptop. More to follow :)


	8. Chapter 8

In the final weeks of their tenancy, John and Rosie rarely spent any time in their old home. Sherlock quickly realised, from the sudden increase in their company, just how much John hated living alone. Exhaustion was etched on his face and there was an underlying sadness in each smile that was impossible to miss. On occasion, Sherlock caught John limping again, and his hand… Sherlock’s chest hurt when he saw John’s hand tremble. The doctor was close to breaking point and Sherlock was terrified that he would crumble under the pressure of bills and single parenting. 

The time they spent together became more precious, both men seemed to feel the value of the smaller things. Each meal together and every walk in the park became opportunities to create new memories. Despite Sherlock’s declarations that he hated leaving the house for any form of exercise that didn’t involve chasing criminals, it was clear that this was not the case. In fact, Sherlock was beginning to enjoy such activities, and would often suggest they go out for a few hours. One evening, when they were walking along the Southbank, they found a pop-up market and John insisted on buying a boxset of awful crime thrillers. Three films in and Sherlock stopped pretending to dislike them, didn’t bother to dispute each time they settled in to watch another film. He found himself looking forward to the films, not the plots necessarily, but rather John’s reactions to them. Sherlock discovered a comfort in the way the doctor would laugh at the terrible story-telling, or awkward acting and a familiar intimacy settled over the flat once more. They never mentioned it, but it was clear that both men were aching to return to normality.   
When the day to move finally arrived, Sherlock was at John’s door by dawn with a hired van. John looked just as excited as Sherlock when he came downstairs to greet the detective, if a little tired at the early start. 

“Thanks for offering to help me this morning Sherlock. And, you know, for the van.”

Sherlock just smiled in response, resisting the urge to bounce on his heels in his eagerness to bring John home. They had never agreed on a time, but both men seemed ready, almost as if John knew that Sherlock would be so early. It just felt… right.

“Most of it’s packed up. It just needs to be moved.”

“Great, we’ll get started then.” Sherlock nodded to van driver and the three men set to lifting the heavy boxes. With quick work and a lot of effort, half an hour later the van was full.

John stood looking up at the now empty house, a sleeping Rosie pressed against his chest.

Sherlock moved to stand beside him, also watching the house. “Would you mind if I did a final sweep?”

John blinked up at Sherlock, stirring from his reverie. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got everything, but yeah. Okay.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll be back in a while. Go get a coffee with Rosie or something.”

John hummed and watched Sherlock disappear into the house. What on earth was he up to?

 

The detective swept through each room, only briefly checking that John hadn’t forgotten anything. His real intention was to go through every section of the house, check for loose floorboards, paper tucked into skirting boards, anywhere that Mary may have left either a stash of money, or a reference to a secret bank account. There was no denying that Mary must have had money. And an ample sum at that. If John was too proud to accept Holmes money, then he would have to rely on Mary’s.

But no matter how focused Sherlock’s search was, Mary left nothing for him to find. 

Damn.

Time and time again conversations of money and support quickly dissolved into tension and Sherlock was at a loss how to help. For a brief moment he considered setting up an account, with the intention of posing as Mary, but he quickly dismissed it. John would never forgive the wound to his pride if he ever found out. So, as much as he despised it, Sherlock was forced to admit defeat and he took one last glance around the house.  
Sherlock could see why John found living here so difficult. Every room reminded him of Mary. The faint whist of her perfume in the curtains, and Sherlock remembered the last time the three of them were here together. Life had been complex then, every day felt like a struggle to breathe, to survive, whilst John was living a life of bliss. The juxtaposition of how both men had been living their lives initially threw Sherlock, but just as he had found a balance, an acceptance of sharing John, Mary died. He shuddered as the sound of that gunshot echoed in his mind. His fault. He owed so much to Mary, to John not to let him down again. But he was beginning to realise that he owed it to himself. This was a chance for happiness, if they could find peace in the past. 

“I’ll look after him,” he said finally to the empty room. “And Rosie. I’ll keep them safe. And happy,” he added. “I will love them so much Mary. I promise.” With a final look, he turned and left.

“All good?” John asked, who was still waiting outside with Rosie.

Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded. “Let’s go home.”

“Back to Baker Street,” John said with a smile. They didn’t look back, even when the taxi pulled away from what was once the Watson’s home. 

The journey to 221B felt shorter than John remembered, and even Rosie babbled in her car seat, seeming to pick up on Sherlock and John’s excitement. When they arrived, Mrs Hudson came out to greet them, hands raised in the air as she cooed at them both. She practically climbed in the taxi to extract Rosie who was just as happy to see the older woman. 

“Don’t you boys worry. I’ll look after her till you’re done.” She said, hefting the infant on her hip.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” John said as he slipped past with some boxes. 

Between the two of them, Sherlock and John were able to unpack everything in a few hours, allowing for short breaks so the Doctor could go downstairs to check on Rosie. John was just sorting through the final box of books, adding them to the bookcase when he came across an old photo frame. Sherlock watched in silence as John turned the frame to reveal a photo of Mary and Rosie. It was taken in the hospital, just after Rosie’s birth and Mary looked radiant as she held her sleeping new-born. 

Sherlock frowned as he watched John hesitate, his fingers tightening around the frame. Rather than put it on display, John grit his teeth and put the photo back into the box.

“All done,” he said, voice thick with exhaustion.

Sherlock waited just a moment before crossing the room and reaching into the box. “What about this?”

John shrugged. “I was going to store it somewhere.”

“I think it would suit here for now, don’t you?” Sherlock asked as he placed the photo on the mantle piece. 

John cleared his throat. “You don’t mind?” 

“Of course not. It’s where she belongs.” 

John smiled faintly. “I think she would be pleased to know I was staying with you.”

“Definitely. But I wish you wouldn’t look at it like that. As if the flat was mine. It’s ours. Always has been.”

John didn’t reply, and the two men stood looking at Mary’s photo. Wordlessly John slipped his hand into Sherlock’s and squeezed. He could feel Sherlock’s fingers twitch in surprise but then the detective tightened his hold too, and both men sighed quietly in unison. 

 

Life at Baker Street settled into a familiar and comfortable routine with surprising ease. The two men fell back into their regular pattern, with Sherlock’s mess of paperwork scattered throughout the lounge, and John’s infuriating habit of trying to tempt or bother Sherlock into eating. The only difference now was Rosie, and both men were able to adapt their daily routine to revolve around her needs with little fuss.   
In the mornings, John would wake and make breakfast while Sherlock would dress Rosie and bring her downstairs to eat. John was amazed at how proactive Sherlock was in Rosie’s care. The two made a formidable team and John would often lose hours of his time, fondly watching the two play together.  
Over the few weeks of moving in, the doctor noticed a growing collection of child development books that Sherlock was accumulating. Every time John saw them, he was overcome with a warm surge of affection, and he could feel the grin, stupid as it was, stretch across his face.

“Right, I’d better go if I want to make it to the interview on time.” John fiddled with his tie in the mirror over the mantle as he spoke. “Are you sure you don’t mind looking after Rosie for me?” 

Sherlock smiled. “We’ll be fine. Up and over.”

“What?”

“Your tie. Oh, never mind, come here.” Sherlock crossed the room and took John’s tie.

Hands perfectly steady, he ran his fingers under the doctor’s collar and loosened the mess of a knot John had made.

“I hate ties,” he muttered. “I can do them on other people, but never on myself.” Head bowed low to focus on the silver knot, Sherlock became acutely aware of his breathing.

And John’s. 

Every time he inhaled, John seemed to exhale, and Sherlock could feel the warm air fan across his face. Which meant that every time John exhaled, Sherlock was breathing it in. Breathing him in. It was impossible to conceal the shiver that ran through him. He swore he could feel John’s breath in his lungs, and he couldn’t determine if that was exciting or terrifying.

He tried to take a deep breath but that only seemed to make things worse as he breathed in some more of John’s aftershave. It was a familiar scent that now felt heady, the smell of amber both comforting and alluring in a way that Sherlock wasn’t used to. It was a scent he’d smelled a thousand times before, but it never elicited such a response… He quickly finished the tie and stepped back.

“Brilliant,” John said, oblivious. “Wish me luck.”

But Sherlock could only nod, struck dumb. 

The second John left, Sherlock began to tremble all over, and he wobbled to the sofa where he could process this new information. What the hell just happened?  
As much as he longed to, he couldn’t sit and worry for long however, as Rosie woke in her bouncer and started to cry. So Sherlock chose to ignore, but not delete what was now labelled as ‘The Strange Event’, in favour of entertaining Rosie for a few hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short filler chapter today. I'm looking forward to getting into some more gritty chapters in the next few weeks that will prompt Sherlock to ask some serious questions about himself, and his expectations.
> 
> Coming soon:
> 
> As more episodes like The Tie Incident occur, Sherlock is forced to question everything he thought he knew, and with the addition of Rosie, to quickly adapt to the inevitable change, in every aspect. John will face his own challenges, the lack of money left from Mary continues to haunt him despite the security of Baker Street. And a new threat looms 221B...


	9. Chapter 9

Climbing the narrow staircase of 221B, John was greeted with the sight of Sherlock lying on the floor in front of Rosie’s playmat. The infant was sprawled on her front, grasping the corners of the mat with her fat fingers. She squealed in delight and kicked her feet behind, like flippers. 

“Hello, are you two having tummy time?” John asked fondly as he hung up his coat. 

“John!” Sherlock waved him over. “Come watch this. Let her see you.”

John crossed the lounge and knelt in front of his daughter. “Hi Rosie, daddy’s home now.”

“Watch,” Sherlock whispered as he moved so that John was in her line of vision. 

“Oh my god…” John’s jaw slackened as Rosie grunted in effort before putting one elbow in front of the other. Slowly but surely his daughter began to crawl towards him. “I can’t believe it!” 

Sherlock laughed as John scooped Rosie into a hug and spun her round. “You did it!” John cheered.

He looked over at Sherlock who was mirroring his ridiculous smile.

“She’s amazing.”

“Come ‘ere,” John choked as he pulled Sherlock into the hug. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For teaching her.”

“I didn’t do anything John. It’s all her.”

“Fantastic,” John beamed. “You’re both fantastic.”

They let one another go so that Rosie, who was babbling excitedly could carry on showing off her newly acquired skill.

“You don’t need to worry,” Sherlock said. “About her development. Her motor skills are just right for her age.”

“That’s good news… I can’t help but want her to run before she can even crawl though,” John admitted.

“Well give her time. With us tutoring her, she will begin surprising us in no time.” 

John hummed in response.

“Congratulations, by the way.”

“Huh? Oh thanks. I start on Monday. Means Rosie will have a decent Christmas.”

“Mm, we’ve got an invite for that, by the way.”

“Yeah?” 

“My parents,” Sherlock dismissed, his nose wrinkling.

“Oh. They’ve invited me too?”

“Of course they have,” Sherlock said easily. “It’s a family event John.” 

John grunted and turned to focus on Rosie in a gruff attempt to hide his blush. 

“Have you thought about presents yet?”

“Wouldn’t that spoil the surprise?”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked quickly. “I meant for Rosie…”

“Oh.” John hesitated. “Well, now my budget looks set to improve I’ll be able to get some nice things. I’ll have a look around some shops, start with the Disney Store and probably get it all there to be honest.”

Sherlock hummed, casting a cursive look around the room. “We should think about decorations in the next few weeks.”

John scoffed. “You hate decorations.”

“Not this year,” Sherlock corrected. He would never admit it but in the time John had moved out, the flat missed those little decorative touches, which he particularly noticed in the festive periods. This would be a good excuse to try and bring them back into some form of normality. “It’s all for Rosie, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” John smirked. 

Rosie started to grizzle, growing tired from her exercise and John picked her up. “I’ll put her down for a nap. We could watch a film or something, if you like?”

“Yes, anything in particular?”

“Hmm, you chose. There must be something to tempt you on there.”

 

They finally settled on a streamed film, some meaningless drivel that Sherlock chose because he knew John would enjoy it. The fact that Sherlock was beginning to show some interest in the film did not go unnoticed by John, who was able to relax once he knew that Sherlock was also enjoying himself. Rather than sitting in their separate armchairs, as they so often did, John and Sherlock mutually decided to watch the film from the sofa, just a cushion’s width between their legs.  
It was a distance that felt impossibly intimate to Sherlock, who often glanced down to see if the cushion shifted out of place, but it remained perfectly still. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. Eventually, he changed position, drawing his feet up onto the sofa and crossing his legs. As he did so, Sherlock underestimated the space he would have between the arm of the sofa, and the cushion, which his knee nudged and almost knocked to the floor.  
John looked down in surprise at the offending cushion. “Oh, sorry,” he said as he moved it onto his lap. Noticing that Sherlock was distracted he asked: “you alright?”

“Hmm, yes. A little cold,” he admitted. “Do you think Rosie will be okay?”

“Yeah, she’s nice and tucked up. Don’t worry.” John pulled the blanket from behind him and unravelled it, before draping it over Sherlock.

The detective grunted his thanks and pulled the blanket up to his chin, settling into his new position, which without the cushion left no room between his knee and John’s leg. Barring the thin barrier of the blanket, their legs were now touching. John didn’t seem to be aware, as he leant back into the sofa, sighing with content.  
For a while they fell silent again, watching the film and John was quickly engrossed once more. Despite feeling cold, the doctor exuded heat in comparison and Sherlock could feel it through the blanket. His bare foot twitched, toes crumpling the blanket between him and John. Sherlock glanced at the older man, to see if he noticed the miniscule movement, but John didn’t seem to. So, feeling braver, Sherlock made the movement again, making sure that his foot brushed John’s leg. 

“Fidget,” John muttered and he caught Sherlock’s foot, squeezing it. “Fuck! You’re freezing. Are you coming down with something? Here, give me your feet.”

John said it so easily, like it was so natural that Sherlock obeyed on instinct. Before he really had time to process what was happening, Sherlock was lying on his back, head against the armrest with his chilled feet in John’s lap. He could see the outline of his feet through the blanket, and the movement of John’s hands rubbing some warmth into them. The motion, obscured by the covers looked as if John were doing something obscene, were it not for the completely calm expression on his face. Sherlock was almost mesmerised with the way the blanket shifted up and down, the previously frantic movements now slowing as John’s attention turned once more to the film. Sherlock blinked in surprise. Almost as quick as John started, the impromptu… whatever this was, had stopped. Was he so boring that John had already lost interest? 

Oh… Sherlock struggled not to make a noise as John pressed his thumb into the arch of Sherlock’s foot. No one had ever touched Sherlock’s feet before. The sensation of his feet being massaged, and this was undeniably a massage, made Sherlock’s breath hitch and he was fixed to the sofa, terrified that if he moved, he would draw attention. Sherlock knew that whatever happened now, London could fall around them, and Sherlock wouldn’t dare to move. John would not be disturbed from his film and... this.

Sherlock glanced down, careful not move his head as he watched John press his hand deep into Sherlock’s foot. Oh god… could he die from this? The sheer sensation of pleasure as John worked over his foot was incredible, and then John took his heel in hand. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to expect at the sudden change in pressure, but once John squeezed, Sherlock’s head fell back again. Pain Sherlock wasn’t even aware he had been carrying melted at John’s touch. He was certain he could feel pressure draining from his toes that were undeniably curling at the onslaught of sensation, draining down into his heel where John effortlessly worked. He wasn’t sure when he had begun, but Sherlock realised that he was panting, his chest rising and falling with each press of John’s sure fingers. He swallowed thickly. Surely John was aware of what was happening. This wasn’t like the ‘tie incident’. This was so much more intense because there was a physical contact now. John was touching him. Sherlock wanted to kick the blanket off, to look at the difference in their skin tones. He could imagine the way John’s tanned hand would look against Sherlock’s oh so pale skin. He wanted to watch John’s fingers as they press into his skin, not just for the contrast but for the method. Sherlock wanted to learn how to do this.

“How,” his voice hitched in his throat and he coughed nervously. John looked down at him.

“You okay?”

“How are you doing that?”

“What?” John looked down at his lap. “Oh shit. Did I make you uncomfortable? I wasn’t even aware I was doing it… Force of habit.” He shrugged and let go.

“No!” Sherlock blushed. “No that’s not what I meant. I… I liked it. I just wanted to know how you do it.”

John cocked an eyebrow in surprise. “You’ve never had a foot massage before?”

Sherlock shook his head, glancing at the tv where the credits were now rolling. 

“It’s easy enough but I suppose being a doctor helps. Knowing pressure points and… things…” 

Sherlock swallowed thickly. 

“It’s focusing on where your feet carry the most weight, and then relieving the pressure.”

“The heel,” Sherlock found himself muttering, “felt good.”

“Yeah?” John smirked. “That’s funny.”

“Why?”

“It’s just… you look vulnerable. No, wrong word. You’re being open. It’s nice.” 

“Oh…” Sherlock hesitated as he digested that information. “Oh god!” John was grinning wickedly as he took Sherlock’s other foot and squeezed the heel, hard. “J-  
John” Sherlock blinked rapidly, sinking back into the sofa.

“It’s good, huh? Used to do this for Mary when she was pregnant. Swore I had a magic touch.”

“She was right,” Sherlock said finally. “I didn’t even know my feet were sore.”

“That’s because you don’t listen to your body enough, Sherlock.” John sighed. “Look at you, you need to relax more and then this will work better.” 

Sherlock lay back and closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing. But it wasn’t long before he was looking steadily at John once more, who was ignoring the intense gaze. Even years ago, before all the shit the fall had caused, before the rift between them happened, Sherlock and John had never been so… intimate. He grimaced. He wasn’t sure he even liked that word to describe what was happening. But it was intimate. Sherlock wasn’t sure that this was something friends did for each other. Maybe it was? He had no experience to go off, and that was something that he deeply regretted. 

“Did you do this in the army?” he asked quietly.

“Shh.”

Sherlock shut up. John said that he used to do this for Mary when she was pregnant. Obviously, she would have needed the extra comfort, Sherlock remembered the toll of carrying Rosie day after day and had often watched John go out of his way to ensure Mary was comfortable. But he had never seen John act like this with anyone else. He certainly couldn’t imagine John offering to massage Lestrade’s feet. The thought made his lip curl in distaste. For a brief moment, Sherlock considered asking his brother for guidance. But that would surely lead to disaster. The last thing Sherlock wanted was his interfering brother invading whatever this was. Sherlock was forced to look at the facts. John typically did this as a way of offering comfort to family members, and as Sherlock frequently told him, they were family. The only conclusion that Sherlock could come to was that this must be platonic. At least for John. For Sherlock, the way the man cupped his ankle sent jolts of electric like energy straight to his guts, almost as if John wasn’t just massaging his feet. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek in an attempt to stop himself from groaning. 

And then a noise filled the room. For a brief, humiliating moment Sherlock was horrified that he had moaned into the silence. But it was high pitched, more feminine than any noise Sherlock could make. John stopped what he was doing and stared at the coffee table. Dread hit Sherlock’s stomach as he realised what the doctor was looking at. Sherlock hadn’t moaned, his phone had.

The screen lit up as the ringtone moaned again and a name popped up.

 

‘The Woman’ had messaged him.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short chapter for the first one. I haven't written in quite a while but this is offering a nice distraction from the dissertation. I'll update as regularly as I can and there will be smut, just not for a little while. I will however highlight the smut chapters in the tags when they happen, for people who want to skip straight to that.


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